“Does someone there have to die first?” Althea says.

  Bob shifts uncomfortably behind his desk.

  Althea looks over at me. I must look bereft, if I look the way I feel. “We’ll just have to pray for long life,” she says. “For everyone in that place in Bridgewater.”

  ***

  On my way to the hospital I spot Bara and Cat on the opposite sidewalk, going south. I slide in behind the thick trunk of a tree and watch. They laugh and talk, too much into each other to notice me.

  When they are well past, I reverse my direction, though I stay on my side of the street. Blonde head, dark head, slender young backs, so animated. Cat sways her hips and waves her hand in the air, dismissive. A caricature. Bara laughs. They pause and talk facing one another, then turn and walk on. Cat’s long, black braid bounces from side to side.

  I keep pace, well behind. A man jostles me, and I mutter an apology. I keep them in sight, in sight, in sight, and then, oh no, they turn a corner. I hold my urge to step into the street long enough to look both ways. A car, coming south; two north. Go. Go. Get out of my way.

  Finally, a space. I cross, hurry as fast as my cane gait allows to the corner where they disappeared. More slowly, I tap my way down the street a few blocks, pausing to glance right and left down each street that cuts across. No sign of them. Gone. I can taste my disappointment.

  ***

  Judith is on her back. I find myself watching her rice-paper eyelids. In the beginning, you could see her eyes moving underneath. I can’t remember when it stopped.

  Althea sits on the other side of the bed. She’s been explaining, in her deep, comforting voice, about the move to the nursing home. “It won’t happen right away, but when it does, we’ll still come to visit, often,” she promises, with no grounds to base it on. I feel sick.

  Althea looks across at me, and her tone lightens. “Hey, Judith, we’ve got something to tell you about. Our friend, Reverend Peter, has done a number on our Lucy here.”

  She tells Judith the story, her eyes on me. “You come up with any ideas, Lucy?”

  “I have, in fact.” I tell her about my conversation with Robin. The part about the fake academic organization prompts her rumbling laugh. The idea of getting together a group to have a serious talk with Reverend Peter, she likes.

  Next thing I know, she’s digging around in her huge purse, pulling out a pen and an envelope. “Who was there that Sunday, Lucy?” We start listing names. She writes them on the back of the envelope, not everyone, but the ones we think might be up for a visit. We add people, cross others off, until we have a list we’re happy with. There is a fresh box of tissue on Judith’s bedside table. She pulls the cardboard insert out of the opening on top. Turning it over, she copies half of the names, mine to contact. She’ll talk to the rest. We’re a lot lighter by the time we leave, almost giddy. I hope Judith’s been listening.

  ***

  I’ve just heaved myself up the stairs on my way to bed. Tired, tired, tired. The light is on, as always, in Judith’s study. “G’night Robin.” It comes out automatically. No return goodnight. I pause and look in. Robin sits slumped in the chair staring at a massive block of paper set in front of the computer. “Robin?”

  He starts, turns, grins his Robin grin. “Hey, Lucy. Look at this.” He waves a hand theatrically in the direction of the paper. “The whole thing. I sorted out the order and printed everything off.”

  “Your friend, the editor. Is it ready to take to him? See if there’s a book in it?”

  “But you said — ”

  “I know, but I’ve thought more about it.”

  “Really? Can I take it to him?” He radiates the excitement of a kid.

  I nod.

  “Thanks, Lucy.”

  “What’s that?” My eye has fallen on what looks like an old sepia print lying on the desk beside the manuscript. He reaches for it, holds it up. People in rags, men, women and children, huddled around a small fire on the side of a road.

  “It’s a detail of a sixteenth-century print,” Robin explains, “Homeless families looking for food and work, living on the only common ground left, the verges of the roads. Judith spotted them, tucked away in a corner of an old reproduction, a drawing of a church. She thinks they’re meant to glorify the church for helping the poor.” He lays it carefully on top of the manuscript. “I figure, if this ever gets to be a book, the print might make a good cover.”

  He rests his long hand on top of the block of paper and his face drops again. “And what will I do with my time now?”

  “I’m sure there’ll be lots for you to do between now and its appearance in the bookstores, since you’re the one that’s read all this.” I wave my hand at the stacks of paper on the floor. “So before you take this massive chunk of paper to your friend, are you going to show it to Judith?”

  “Of course. Come with me?”

  “Sure. So, there’s nothing more to learn about resistance to land privatization?”

  Robin brightens. “Of course there is. I’ve even been thinking about going back to school, although I hate that it’d be a victory for my dad.”

  “So it’s all about being stubborn, then? Oh dear. Here I am siding with your parents again, you crazy, misguided kid.”

  He laughs again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Bara is eating breakfast at the kitchen table. I am making toast, my back to her, trying to sound nonchalant. “You never told me what ‘Cat’ is short for.”

  I hear her push aside her empty cereal bowl. “Lucy, Cat thinks you were following us.”

  I freeze, mortified by a sudden image of myself through the eyes of the young and beautiful Cat: old, dishevelled, hobbling around spying on them.

  “Lucy, it creeps Cat out, the way you stare at her. Maybe you’re not quite so comfortable with dykes as you make out you are. Or maybe you just don’t want me to have a lover.”

  I turn to face her. “Dykes? Where’d you get that word? And no, of course I’m glad you have a lover.”

  “Then why the staring? Why did you go through our things? Why were you following us? It’s a problem, because I’ve decided she’s a keeper.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re going to start looking for someplace else to live.”

  “Last time you looked, you couldn’t find anything you could afford.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” She rises and crosses the kitchen, placing her cereal bowl in the sink. She disappears through the basement door without another glance at me.

  Behind me the toast pops.

  ***

  “Judith, it’s Lucy and Robin,” Judith looks even more like a mummy, parchment stretched over bone. “Look, it’s your book. Robin printed everything off.” The stack of paper is packed in a cardboard box. Robin sets it on the bedcover. Judith’s hand is curled into a stiff, bony fist, but I lift it gently and place it awkwardly on the package.

  “I’m taking it to my friend.” Robin says. “He’s an editor. He’s going to look at it, see what it would need to be published as a book.”

  “And Robin found a print in your study that might work for a cover,” I tell her.

  “You know, Judith? The dispossessed people you spotted in the corner of that old print of the church?” Robin adds.

  We keep up a three-way conversation for two as long as we can. When it’s time to go, I lift the husk of her hand off of the manuscript, set it down on the cool cotton of the bed. Robin picks up the package. He holds it reverently in front of his chest as we leave.

  ***

  “At last, the manuscript you’ve been telling me about.” Robin’s friend is scholarly looking with his round glasses and slightly bent shoulders, clearly excited about the box Robin places into his hands. More excited than a few days of knowing about it would warrant, but I don’t even cast Robin a sideways glance. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve caught his excitement about the thought of Judith’s work published as a book. To celebrate, Robin takes me out to lunch at Susan’s Place, inside that is, at a table.

  ***

  When we arrive home, Bara meets us at the door. “I’ve been trying to find you. Bob Cumberland called. He’s at the hospital. Judith’s struggling to breathe.”

  Robin and I go together. Althea is already there. Bob stands to greet us, hair as rumpled as his suit, face pale. He goes to find more chairs.

  Judith is propped up on more of an angle than usual, and her face, ghostly pale for so long, is flushed. She is puffing, grasping for air through her mouth, her terribly deteriorated teeth exposed. And then she stops.

  I look at Althea in alarm. “Wait,” she says. “She’s been doing this.” And as the last word comes out of her mouth, Judith gasps, setting off another flurry of ragged breaths.

  Bob returns with chairs. We form a tense circle, our eyes pinned to Judith’s struggle.

  “What does the doctor say?” I ask Bob.

  “Pneumonia.” He says it in an odd, breathless voice. I realize Judith has paused again and Bob is holding his breath with her.

  “Is it something they, you know, can do something about?” Robin asks.

  Bob glances at him, then to me, and finally Althea. “It’s okay, Bob,” Althea says. “Tell him about the non-resuscitation order.”

  “Oh,” says Robin.

  I glance at him. He understands.

  “They’ve given her something for pain,” Bob adds.

  And now I realize I am holding my breath too, because Judith has stopped again. When the air rasps back into her throat, mine is so dry it also feels like a rasp.

  I see a shine in Althea’s eyes at one point, respond with a welling in my own. But then I dry up, waiting, listening, tense, finally sore. We are a circle of statues.

  ***

  Bob is the first to leave, with a promise to return. Robin goes next. Althea holds Judith’s hand on one side, me on the other. “Lord,” she prays, “please release our dear sister from her travail.” She pauses, Judith does as well. When Judith takes up breath again, Althea takes up her prayer. “Fold her to your breast. Comfort her.” Another pause, another gasp. Althea is swaying slightly, face raised and eyes closed. “Grant her the rest she so richly deserves. Reward her for fights well-fought.”

  I lean over and whisper in Judith’s ear. “Dear Judith. It’s time to go. We’ll be okay.” I pause, then add, “I love you.”

  ***

  As darkness gathers outside the window, I start awake. My chin has hit my chest. And still there is the fight for breath, given up, engaged again. Bob arrives, sets down his briefcase just inside the door. “Still the same?” he asks.

  Althea and I nod in unison.

  “I talked to the nurse outside,” he says. “She’s been through this before. It can go on for a long time. I think you should both go and rest. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

  Althea and I consult with a glance. She looks terrible. We nod in unison again.

  ***

  We take the bus, holding each other up with our well-padded shoulders propped together, saying nothing. I lie down on the chesterfield in my clothes, remembering all those nights on the street and in the basement of this house when I had no other choice. This time, it’s because I might have to get back to the hospital quickly.

  It seems only moments later the phone rings. Bob.

  “Shall I come?”

  He can’t speak, just a squeaking sound.

  “It’s over, isn’t it?”

  ***

  I make my way to the kitchen, check the cupboard under the sink. The bottles are still there. I take a juice glass out of the drainer, fill it with stale wine, sit down at the table. The clock says three thirty. Three thirty in the morning of the day Judith died. Who knows, she may have left us weeks or months ago, but this is the date we will remember for the rest of our lives.

  I try to pray. How does Althea come up with all those formal phrases, pouring out of her so naturally? All I can come up with is “Bienaventurados los que tienen hambre y sed de justicia.” Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice. “Porque ellos serán hartos.” For they shall be filled.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “I’m sorry, Lucy,” Bob says, shedding jacket and briefcase in a habitual motion as he comes through his office door. I don’t know if he means because he’s late or because Judith’s gone. He digs through the filing cabinet that stands beside his desk, the kind lawyers seem to like, with the files sideways. He finds what he wants, sits down at his desk. “Judith had a pre-paid arrangement with a funeral home to cremate her remains.” He frowns at the papers in his hand. “And some interesting instructions concerning her ashes.” He unfolds some kind of form, adjusts his reading glasses. “She wants her friends to scatter them from the Angus L. MacDonald bridge on a windy day, quote ‘with a prayer for the end of private property and poverty. No God.’ Do you know what that means? I was thinking of asking Reverend Peter to do something at the church but — “

  “No.” I say it so strongly that Bob gives me a curious look.

  “All right, let’s think about it. There’s no hurry.”

  “Bob? Is her will there? What happens to the house?”

  He turns over some pages in the file, all with blue, cardboard corners stapled in place. “It’s here somewhere.” He frowns. “My memory is she left the house to the Shelter Society, along with the funds to maintain it.”

  ***

  “I was going to ask my gospel choir to put together something rousing for her at the church.” Althea screws up her face. “But it’ll be on the bridge? And what on earth’s a prayer without God?”

  “Oh come on,” says Patty. “People have memorials and weddings, all kinds of ceremonies where they talk about what’s sacred to them without naming it God.” Her eyes are red around the edges. I glance over at Althea, eyebrows raised, but she doesn’t see me. She doesn’t look convinced by Patty’s comment, either.

  We sit in the old wooden chairs scattered around her office, the sun pouring in through the thriving plants on her window sill. Besides Althea and Patty, there’s Bob, Robin, me and, of all people, John. He’s retired, he announced when I greeted him. The way he fills his chair and flows over the edges, it’s clear he’s given up even the flimsy line he was holding against his weight. He looks happy, though. I wonder if he can still write me that letter, now that I’m free. Free of my probation, and now free … the thought comes with an intense mixture of sadness and relief.

  Althea lays her hand on a dark-coloured cardboard box sitting on her desk. “She was a good woman.” With a little jolt I realize what the box is. So small. There was almost nothing left of her at the end, but this wouldn’t hold a pair of shoes. I miss her terribly. I hold my breath, feeling my eyes begin to swim. She’ll never unlock the front door again, kick off her shoes and turn on CBC. And my story, what will I do with the rest of it? Having started, I can feel it bubbling up, wanting out.

  “So what do people picture happening, with this prayer thing, I mean?” Bob asks us.

  “A prayer without God,” Althea snorts.

  Robin’s face brightens. “Judith did research on the Quakers. Why don’t we do it the way they do, sit silently together until someone feels inspired to speak?”

  “Really?” Althea looks skeptical.

  “Up on the bridge?” says Patty.

  “She’s asking for a windy day,” John joins in for the first time. “And it’s November. Could be cool up there. And noisy.”

  Robin persists. “A modified Quaker thing, then. Like, we each share a memory of Judith, everyone who wants to.”

  We continue to talk, but eventually we circle back to Robin’s idea. Out come the daybooks. Can’t say I miss having one. Only one other person doesn’t: John. Even Robin slides one of those free calendar booklets from Hallmark out of his back pocket. It has to be a windy day, though, so just like people set rain dates, we name a couple of “no wind dates.”

  “Shall I keep the ashes here at the church in the meantime?” Althea asks.

  “No.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken until I hear my own voice. “I think …” I don’t want to say, “take her home”; I’ll cry. “ … At the house,” is what I manage to get out.

  “That’s a good idea.” Althea nods. So does everyone else.

  Robin volunteers to take them.

  Afterward I ask Althea about Patty’s red eyes and Cindy’s absence. She shakes her head. “Not good.”

  “Breaking up?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Did Cindy get her kids back?”

  “Yeah, but the break-up makes the whole situation pretty unstable again.”

  ***

  On the way out, I almost run into Reverend Peter at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, Lucy,” he says, in that booming voice of his. “I’m so sorry about Judith. Do you know her family? Will they be wanting a funeral here?”

  I tell him briefly about the bridge and get out of there, thinking: And a group of us will be coming to see you. Soon.

  ***

  I’ve been holding my breath over Bara’s decision to leave, but when I get home she looks pretty settled at the centre of household life, as always. The kids are meeting, living room full, a few standing in the hallway. They make way for me, a smile or two. I sit on the second-to-bottom step to listen. I can see Judith’s ashes on the old wooden mantle, dead centre. She’d like that.

  They are talking about the flag campaign. What better memorial to Judith, they decide, than a Chicken Campaign flag on every flagpole in town the night before we scatter her ashes? She’d like that too.

  ***

  The next morning the girls start sewing. Without the manuscript to work on, Robin is underfoot. “Get out of here,” Bara tells him. “Get your stencils and paint out again, call Gord. We could use some Chicken Campaign graffiti that night too.”